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Job Loss

October 18, 2017

Please indulge me today. I want to pay tribute to a pastor I know. He's retiring this coming June. To tell you the truth, I don't think any of the other elders of the church will notice he's gone. But, truly, he will be missed.

Now, I'm going to speak the truth here, and, as such, we'll give this pastor a fictional name. Why don't we call him John, as in John Wesley?

John went to seminary the same time I did. He was much younger than I. I'd taken an extended tour of the world at the expense of my Uncle Sam before entering the seminary. John and I knew each other but were not friends. We just didn't run in the same circles.

I, at that age, tended to be clinging to physical exploits. I ran marathons, played on an semi-pro soccer team, all those macho things of one in a perpetual struggle to defy aging.

John was never seen running. John was never seen participating in competitive sports. I'm not sure what John did, but John appeared to be less than motivated to break a sweat.

I don't know what kind of student John was. He never said much in class; in fact, I don't recall him ever saying anything in class. But when our time there was done he marched across the stage and received his diploma.

John was sent to his first full-time appointment. He went with an eagerness that matched his permanent smile. His appointment was a three church circuit. He rode that circuit with the determination of an eighteenth century circuit rider. He lasted two years there. Eighteen months into that appointment the folks asked for a new pastor. They were not without reason. John, you see, couldn't preach his way out of a wet paper bag.

I remember talking to John just before he went to his new church. He was happy as a lark. The bishop, he told me, had given him this new opportunity and he and his wife couldn't wait to get there. And then he told me how lucky the pastor who was following him was, how great those congregations were.

It wasn't more than three years that the cycle repeated. Did I mention John couldn't preach his way out of a wet paper bag? Once again he was delighted at having a new opportunity for ministry. Once again he was happy for the lucky stiff who was following him. And not once did he complain.

That pattern went on throughout John's entire ministry. For about four decades he moved from one pastoral charge to another with amazing frequency. When he was moving to his last church he once again was delighted to be going there and had told the replacement pastor how lucky she was.

Folks weren't impressed with John's preaching. They weren't impressed with his passivity. And yet …

Whenever someone was in the hospital, John was there. Whenever someone's relative was jailed, John was there pleading with the Sheriff for some consideration. Whenever someone lost a loved one, John held their hand. And whenever someone was in pain, John cried with them; John cried real tears of empathy.

I happened to be present on two occasions when John was asked to open a meeting with prayer. You know, we pastors pray all the time, at least publicly we do. But John, oh, wow, when John prayed it was something different. I think John and the Lord were well acquainted. I think, if anyone does, John knows God's middle name. They talk a lot.

John and I, over the years, knew who each other were. We spoke to each other at gatherings of the brothers and sisters. I like John. I think John likes me. But it was only occasionally, after seminary, our paths crossed.

Nevertheless, when Ms. Parson died, John was there. John drove halfway across the state to just sit in a pew and share my sorrow. He hugged me after the service and whispered in my ear, “I will pray for you twice a day for the next year.” John didn't say “I'll pray for you.” John told me he'd do it twice a day and for how long. It may well have been John's prayers that got me through it.

Did I mention John couldn't preach his way out of a wet paper bag? He couldn't. It's not bragging when I say I can preach circles around John. But John has one up on me. John and Jesus are best friends.

December 06, 2011

The annual Ornament Swap Party was winding down. The only folks still at the church were in the kitchen cleaning, putting pots and pans away, and doing what had to be done. The parson was helping by drying the dishes. Helen Ponder, a young lady of eleven, going on twenty-five, pulled on his sleeve.

“Can I talk to you?”

“Sure,” said the parson, “what's on your mind, Helen?”

“Not here,” she whispered and nodded her head in the direction of her mother who was sweeping the floor.

The parson immediately dried his hands on a dish cloth and pointed toward his study. Helen led the way.

“Okay, now we're in private,” said the parson. “What's up?”

Helen plopped herself down on the sofa. “Okay, this is one of those pastor counseling things, right? And that means anything we say here in your office is just between you and me. I mean, it's a kinda secret, right?”

“That's probably right, Helen,” said the parson. “It's right as long as you don't tell me anything that I think your parents really need to know. I can't tell you I won't tell your parents, but I won't do that unless it's absolutely necessary. Okay?”

Helen stared at the floor a moment. “Okay, I guess it's okay. I trust you.”

“So,” the parson asked again, “What's up?”

“What's up is my parents.”

“What's up with your parents?”

“Okay, Parson, I'm really worried about my parents.”

“What are you worried about?”

Helen sucked in her breath and then let it out in an audible sigh. “What I'm worried about is they way they act like nothing is wrong.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Well, yeah, Parson. Something is wrong. My dad hasn't had a job in almost a year. And I think it's just making him feel terrible. I mean he doesn't smile very much anymore. And he and Mom are arguing a lot.”

The parson leaned forward from his rocking chair. “Don't you think that your dad not having a job this long would make things stressful?”

“I know that, Parson. I understand what's going on. I mean, I talked to my aunt about it. I know about all this stuff about my Dad not feeling like he's worth what he used to be. And I understand that because he is feeling this way he and my Mom are going to fuss a lot.”

The parson stared at this remarkable young lady. Then he said, “So, what's troubling you?”

“Okay,” she said as she sucked in another breath and slowly let it out, “here's the thing. They act like I'm some little kid that doesn't have a clue what's going on. They act like I can't understand. I mean, do you know my Dad has never actually told me he lost his job. Can you believe that? I go to school and my Dad is there. I come home from school and my Dad is there. I'm not a stupid woman, Parson.”

The parson smiled. “You know, Helen, they may not be telling you because they don't want you to worry.”

Helen seemed to be taking inventory of the parson' bookshelf before she answered. When she did, she said, “So, my Dad just hangs around the house playing video games. My Mom is fussing about everything. And we're eating a lot of hamburger helper, but they don't want me to worry? Do you see why I'm worried? I mean, well, Parson, you know what I mean.”

“I do, Helen,” said the parson. “I do. Where's your Dad?”

“He's out in the car waiting for Mom.”

“Okay, why don't you go tell your Mom and Dad I want to talk to them.”

“So you're going to do that pastor counseling thing, right?”

The parson didn't laugh. He even forced the smile from forming. “Actually, Helen,” said the parson, “I think I'm just going to make it possible for you to talk to them. Does that sound like a plan?”

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